


How Low Can You Go

by zoeburchard



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Attempted Smut, Dysfunctional Relationship, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Ooops, Started as smut, drug usage, more confident than normal Theo, turned into emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28124736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeburchard/pseuds/zoeburchard
Summary: Inspired by LP's new song, How Low Can You GoTheo and Boris have a strange relationship after Amsterdam, but they make it work until it's too much for Boris.Fluffy, smutty, pining, unsaid words. Story is probably better than the summary.As always, I'm really selling it here.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	How Low Can You Go

The last time I saw him we did coke in a closet. The Chateau Marmont was huge and beautiful- filled with many pieces of stunning, old furniture, making me wonder what Boris must have paid for our room. ( _Our_ room, always.) As we left the bar he had taken my wrist in his long fingers, shooting me a suggestive smirk and a wink, as he drug me into a closet filled with chairs. He pulled out the gold tin and we inhaled all our inhibitions away.

I felt his eyes on me before I saw them. When I met his gaze, immediately I recognized the sheer _want_. The heat rose in my cheeks and in my gut. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth hungrily before grabbing my tie, pressing our lips together in a way I had grown to crave. His smooth white neck was beneath my fingers, touching every inch of the exposed skin as possible. Pulling away just a little, I traced his jaw line with my tongue eliciting a breathy exhale and an involuntary jerk of his hips against mine.

He knew what he had done. I grabbed his hips forcefully and shoved him against the unlocked door with a thud that rang of the violence of our childhood. I could feel the bones of his pelvis pressing into me. While he had filled out more since we were kids, he was still a boney, lanky mother fucker and it only fueled my desire. A handful of his hair in my fist, I jerked his head back, biting the underside of his jaw, “Ah— Potter.” I knew it hurt, and I knew he liked it. I licked the skin I had sunk my teeth into to sooth the pain, feeling the vibration of him moan on my tongue. Whatever we did together we kept secret but I relished the thought of him being unable to cover up the marks I left behind, the thought of his ‘coworkers’ seeing what I had done.

Boris had managed to remove my tie and work most of the buttons of my shirt open, cold hands sliding over my bare chest. His nails scratched softly down to my waist sending shivers up my spine. His touch. I craved his touch more than the drugs, more than the alcohol. In New York the most physical affection I received was the occasional shoulder pat from Hobie or awkward hug from Mrs. Barbour. The sheer physicality of him, since the scorching days and hot nights in Vegas, it had always been hands on arms, arms around shoulders, fingers clutching hips, soft and soothing pulls of the hair. I had never been touched the way he touched me, before or after Vegas and never since- only Boris. It was his language and I spoke it fluently.

And with Boris now it was all hands caressing and hot, alcoholic breath on skin. This had become our routine- I’d get a plane ticket and hotel reservation in my email, drop everything and meet him. We would quickly fall into our old ways of drinking, getting high, always ending up a mess of limbs, sweat and tangled sheets. This particular visit wasn’t too different from the others in any way except that it was our last. But I didn’t know that as I desperately tore open his shirt and undid his belt. “It’s been too long, Boris.”

I kissed down his chest, leaving small bruises in my wake- something just for him, to remember me by when we parted ways again. “Ah, yes. Work. Very busy, you know, Potter.” His voice was breathy, each word punctuated by sharp gasps and quiet moans. His head fell back against the door, hands grabbing fistfuls of my hair, holding my face tightly to his body. There was a soft spot above his hip that, when touched, would typically make him squirm in a fit of laughter. When I kissed him just right, tongue caressing the pale expanse just above the bone, he melted into the security of the hard surface behind him, the sweetest sound coming from his lips.

I followed the curve of the waistband of his black jeans, first with the tips of my fingers, then with my tongue, before standing up to kiss him once more. Holding the bare skin of his waist, I rolled my hips against him. We breathed heavy into each other’s mouths. “Fuck.” I bit his ear and he pushed at my shoulder.

“Fuck what? So much teeth, Potter.” His protest was half hearted as his hand pushed me away, his shoulder slumped down to press into me. “Hungry?” His smirk sent me reeling. His hands that both pushed me away and pulled me back to him at the same time- I could barely breath and we had to leave.

“You could say that,” I said, grabbing the back of his neck, pressing our mouths together with all the urgency of a teenager that knows their parents will be home soon. As often as I dreamed about kissing him, he always felt so much better than the dream. Every time we had a secret rendezvous in a new city or country the taste of him would wipe my mind clean of any insecurity, any lingering concern I had for what it all might mean. Boris was by far the most important person in my life, the one I thought of most, the one I worried about when we were not together. I never knew when I’d hear from him, when I’d see him- it was always a waiting game. One I would endure with impatient, excruciating torment. Then I would get the call and like a dutiful wife not yet freed by the enlightenment of feminism, I would go where I was called, not thinking twice about the implications. We never talked about any of it. We spoke his language instead.

I needed him and he needed me. “Boris.” He arched an eyebrow at me, eyes darting up to mine and back down to my lips. “We need to go upstairs- _now.”_ I buckled his belt, he buttoned up my shirt.

“Fuck you, Potter! Look! Half the buttons- gone!” I couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down at his own shirt, buttons missing from my less than patient attempts at removing the thin fabric covering his scarred skin.

“What? You don’t want to walk back to the room like that?” Holding the edges of his shirt he eyed me suggestively.

Nodding, chin up in the air, standing as tall as ever, he said, “You would like that, would you not?” I pushed my glasses up my nose and picked up my tie, grabbing my suit coat and Boris’ leather jacket off the ground, stifling a laugh.

With a sly grin he popped the door open and slipped out, shirt still hanging open. “Boris!” I whispered sharply, attempting to maintain some sense of decency before going out into the public spaces of the chateau. I snuck out quickly, looking around to make sure no one saw. Attempting to walk with composure in my intoxicated state was proving difficult without Boris to lean on. “Boris!” I whispered as loud as I dare once more. My hand found a wall to steady me on my lost cause of a journey to the room.

“Potter!” He spoke loudly with a cheery tone, coming up behind me, sliding an arm around my waist. “Come out of closet now?”

I tried to shush him but it came out in a muffled chuckle. “Boris. You’re so loud!” Our bodies leaned naturally into each other, the weight of one supporting the other. He was laughing too. “Where, where are we staying again?” I threw my arm easily around his shoulders.

The wheels turned in his head as he tried to remember through the fog of the drugs and the alcohol where on earth we were staying. “Ehh, is penthouse? Yes, penthouse!” We both lost it, nearly falling to the floor. Us, two boys- I could hardly see us grown as we were in my mind- who had been so starved, stealing what we could just to eat, living in our own filth unless we had a mind to clean up after ourselves; Boris and me staying in a _penthouse._ It wasn’t the first time, but it never stopped surprising me that this is where we were in our lives.

The first thing I saw in the room was the full size bottle of vodka with a note attached to it, presumably from the hotel in thanks for Boris’ patronage. Neither of us read the note— Boris tossing it to the ground, opening the bottle and pushing it up to my lips for me to drink.

“Drink, drink!” He encouraged. I pushed him away when I had had enough, feeling the burn in my throat. He drank deep and smooth as he’d been doing his whole life, slamming the bottle back down on the table with a laugh. “Is not so good, but does the trick!”

I couldn’t help but stare as he stood before me, shirt hanging open, the left side starting to slide down his shoulder. The tattoos and scars on his bare chest standing out like the beacon of a lighthouse. I stepped closer to him, suddenly feeling more serious. His battle scars. Every time I saw them it was a reminder that there was no guarantee I would ever see him again. As fast as my mother had been ripped from me, so could I lose Boris. And worse- I wouldn’t even know.

I traced over a particularly long and gnarly scar that started at the top of his ribs and curved around the side of his body. Long fingers caught mine and I tore my eyes from his body up to meet his gaze. “You should see other guy, Potter.” He could read me so well- with an intoxicated glance he understood all the words I couldn’t utter, the fear behind my eyes, the worry that colored every moment from the time we parted until we’d see each other again. My fingers on his skin were my dissertation detailing everything I felt, everything I had ever felt for him, all the fear I held for his life.

“I am okay. I am here, safe. Do not worry, Potter.” He drew my hand back across the scar, up to the center of his chest. “You see? Am very strong. All scars are proof I live- and live well, yes?” He held our hands over his heart, grabbing the bottle and taking another swig. I snatched it out of his hands to take another drink myself before he said, “We will stand brooding all night, or—“ and I cut him off with a kiss once more, walking him backwards to the bed. When I made to climb on top of him, he hooked a leg around my waist and flipped us around so he was on all fours above me. He drug his shining veneers across my collar bone as I moved to wrestle him off of me.

“Net. Ostavat’sya.” His voice was soft but forceful. I didn’t understand but _I understood._ I settled for pushing his shirt off his shoulders and he pulled his his arms free of the sleeves. The mess of raven hair I had grown so fond of hung down over me, vodka smelling breath making me happier than I ever felt I had the right to be.

—

Sleeping through an entire night undisturbed by the past was a rarity. The last full night of sleep I can remember getting had been back in Vegas, before Boris had started dating Kotku. Sure there were plenty of nights I was knocked out cold from the drinking, but that sleep left me with more pain and regret than the nightmares typically did.

I woke up around 3am, maybe an hour and half after we finally passed out in each other’s arms, and carefully I untangled myself from Boris’ limbs. Grabbing his cigarettes from the floor and a blanket to wrap myself in, I snuck out to the balcony. The city lights cast a golden haze over the sky. Not a star could be seen, the moon a far off and distant body shining for itself but refusing to cast any light.

It was colder than fuck outside, especially for LA. I wrapped the blanket up around my shoulders and took a drag of the cigarette I had lit. When I turned to look back inside as I blew the white smoke up into the air, I could see the hazy form of Boris’ body back in bed. One of us had left the bathroom light on- a dim yellow light- that traced along the edges of his body and implied his form under the blanket. _If it could be this way every night_ I had thought. Just to wake up from every bad dream to his face, to cradle him against my chest on every sleepless night, to have his fingers in my hair when the pain of my past comes rushing back.

Despite the strange arrangement that left us seeing each other every couple of months rather than everyday, as it had once been, we had once again become the life force the other depended on. The very air in each other’s lungs. At least he was mine. But we did nothing. We talked minimally about our lives and never about this thing that we had. When he needed me, I was there. When I needed him, he was there.

As many times as I had wanted to say something or hoped he would, it seemed as though every time I got close to even considering talking about how I felt there would be this totally unreadable look in Boris’ eye that I couldn’t place. I thought I knew his every look, every cock of his head, turn of the lips, each word meant by his expressive eyebrows. But this— this was something else, caught in a space between despair and yearning. And so I was silent. When I’d wake up in the middle of the night and text him a photo of the empty dark streets below my window, almost immediately, he’d send back a photo of a dog he’d met on the street or a cat cafe (cardboard cafe specifically made for cats) that he’d stumbled upon. Sometimes I’d even get a poorly lit, but shot from a good angle, selfie with a comforting smile.

So I lived in the in-between. The moments caught between all the things we didn’t say. Mostly I was okay. He would still ask if I was happy and as long as we were together my answer, yes, would never be a lie.

I got caught in a loop thinking about what would happen if I said something. How things might change and if it would push us apart, bring us together or if everything would remain as it was. Then his hand fell over mine, slipping the pack of cigarettes and lighter out of my fingers. My thoughts were so loud I hadn’t heard him stir. As he lit himself a cigarette, leaning heavy against the railing I let my eyes wander up and down his body. Completely naked, pale white skin that appeared blue in the shadows with golden halos from the surrounding lights, toned and almost healthy looking save for the darkness life had tattooed under his eyes. I wanted to pull him to me, wrap him up in the blanket and tell him he was my whole world. Instead I said, “You’re not cold.” It wasn’t a question, he was rarely cold.

“You live in New York- through winter! And _you_ are cold?” I rolled my eyes. He turned his body towards me, on arm leaning on the railing, the other open, inviting, with a cigarette precariously resting between two fingers. I stepped closer to him, hugging the blanket tighter around my body. Boris put his cigarette between his lips and wrapped his arm around my waist, instantly allowing me to relax into him. His eyes gazed across the city taking in the view he had no doubt paid extra for.

“Did I wake you?”

The smoke from our cigarettes trailed up into the sky and disappeared.

“Bed was cold.”

I arched a brow at him quizzically and he saw the irony. “Is different kind of cold, asshole.” He grabbed the blanket and pulled it down to the ground leaving me fully exposed in the frigid air.

“Fucker! It’s freezing!” I yelled back, forgetting what time it was. But though I had raised my voice, he was laughing and I was laughing. We were kids again on that balcony, teasing each other, blowing smoke in each other’s faces.

“You with stupid blanket out here on beautiful night! Enjoy the fresh air, Potter!” He paused, inhaling deeply before making a face, “Not so fresh perhaps, but feels nice!” He spread his arms out like a bird soaring through life free and unafraid. I loved him more than anything and anyone I had ever loved in my life. But we only spoke his language. It was the rule. Only touch. So I gave in and I said it to him a thousand times in a thousand different languages when I grabbed his shoulders and crashed our lips together in an intense but sobering kiss. I screamed those words from rooftops as I drew with light fingers down his chest. I whispered it like a secret to anyone that would listen as I combed through his tousled hair.

When I pulled back I was acutely aware of arm curled around my back, holding on for dear life. Our foreheads pressed together and I thought in that moment I could fly. “Boris—“ he didn’t move except to turn his head to the side just enough to take another drag of the cigarette.

As the smoke danced around him he whispered, “I know.”

—

I didn’t hear from Boris for four months after that. I had texted him a few times with no reply. More than my desperation for any kind of contact- I admit it was desperation- more than all that, I just wanted to know he wasn’t dead somewhere in the world. My heart didn’t seem completely and utterly torn from my chest, so he must be alive, and yet the ache of his absence never failed to accompany me during every moment of every day and night. I only wanted to know he was safe.

It was January 13th when I finally heard from him again. A text.

**Dinner?**

With a time and address in a text to follow. I almost threw the phone across the room. He was safe, that was good to know, but if he wasn’t dead or in grave danger why had he never responded? I considered leaving the text unanswered. I considered not meeting him. But that ache deep in my chest told me I was going. Putting on my best suit and polishing my Italian leather shoes (purchased on one of our trips to Italy _the very best, Potter)_ I left half an hour early knowing I would arrive 10 minutes before he had said to be there. My heart and my brain were so disconnected I couldn’t even allow myself to arrive late just to spite him.

As I was paying the taxi driver I snuck a glance towards the restaurant to see Boris pacing, smoking a cigarette. He appeared almost flustered. It was a new look for him and I didn’t know how to interpret it. I climbed out of the cab, sunk my hands deep in my pockets and walked up to him.

He threw the cigarette on the ground and stamped it out with the heel of his sleek leather boot. His eyes met mine- he looked like a cornered animal. There was definitely something wrong.

“You came.” His voice was deep and serious, none of his usual mirth.

I simply nodded stepping towards the door to the restaurant. A hand on my wrist stopped me mid step. When I looked in his dark brown eyes it was there again- a want, a pain, an inability to articulate exactly what it was he wanted to say. Letting out a long sigh, as if he was disappointed that his attempt at communication wasn’t going through, and he dropped my wrist.

“Okay. Let’s go,” and he lead me inside to a reserved table in the back.

The first thing I noticed was the third chair. I eyed the chair, then Boris. He was more uncomfortable than I could ever remember seeing him. A tall blonde woman approached the table and the next thing I noticed was Boris’ hand as he pulled out the chair for her. A simple gold band sat on his ring finger.

“Ah! Potter- Theo, this is Astrid, my wife.” He was trying hard to stay cool. I shook her hand and said hello warmly.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know he was married, but he never talked about Astrid beyond telling me her name, he never gave any impression he was actively trying to be a real husband to her, and he never wore a wedding ring. I had just assumed it had been a marriage of convenience and they must have some kind of arrangement.

It felt like the earth was shattering around me. I could only glare at him across the table under my glasses while she looked over a menu. Not once had I ever asked about his wife or made any impression that I wanted to meet her. I, in fact, very much did not want to met her.

“Theo,” usually hearing my name from his lips was like a beautiful melody, a private song just for him and me. But tonight it sounded like poison, like betrayal. “He is oldest friend, from Las Vegas.”

“Borya has told me a little about you. He said you saved his life when you were kids.” (I hadn’t, though he had saved mine countless times.)

She smiled sweetly at me and in that moment I realized I had nothing against her. I didn’t hate her, I didn’t know her at all. Astrid was probably a lovely woman but I couldn’t understand why Boris would bring her here.

“Uh, yeah.” I pushed my glasses up. “What brings you to New York?”

Before she could respond Boris spoke quickly, “Needed Vacation!”

“A vacation? In New York? In January?” I laughed in a way that I hoped wouldn’t make me seem like a complete ass.

His eyes held my gaze as he threw an arm around Astrid’s shoulders. “My beautiful wife loves city in winter. Too cold for me but it makes her happy.” To add insult to injury he gave her a peck on the cheek. She leaned into his touch affectionately before scooting her chair back to stand.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said as she walked back towards the restrooms.

When I was sure she was out of ear shot, “What the actual mother fuck, Boris? Your wife? What the fuck could you hope to accomplish by bringing your wife here? I should just fucking leave now.” But I didn’t. I sat and waited for his response.

“Potter—“

I could feel my face redden, but my body wasn’t listening to me. I leaned across the table to hold his face in my hands. For the first time that night I saw a fraction of the tension leave his body. “Boris. Why?”

He knew, in that one word, all questions I needed answers to. But all he said was, “Is easier.”

I ripped my hands back from his face, falling heavy into the back of the chair, arms crossing over my chest. “It’s easier? Easier than what? How the fuck is this easier? Things were just fine— we had,” I swallowed hard trying to come up with the words, “whatever we had was good, Boris. We were _happy.”_

Head dropping, fists forming on the table his voice became small, “Happy? Happy chasing each other around planet? Happy getting high out of mind? Happy drinking until you pass out in your own vomit? Happy with occasional fuck and a text every few weeks? You are happy, Potter?” Equal parts anger and exhaustion painted his face. His words were daggers.

“I was—“ _with you_ is what I should have said. I stood up to leave before Astrid returned but he stood to block my path.

“Don’t go.”

“Why?” We stood there for a moment. It felt like an eternity, both of us staring at the other looking like kicked puppies. When he couldn’t answer, I pushed past him to the door.

I reached the sidewalk and began to look for a cab. I needed something to take the edge off- I had to get home.

Then he was there, behind me, I caught a reflection of him in the corner of my glasses. He must have been three feet away at least. I refused to speak or turn to look at him properly.

“All—“ He paused, rubbing the space between his eyes. When he looked back up at me there was only anguish. “All that I love is destroyed. Always. Since youth, you know this.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Stepping back away from me he spoke, voice strained and quiet, unliked I had ever heard before, “You understand, Potter, yes?” When I didn’t respond he closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the black clouds glowing orange with the light pollution. Slowly I turned to face him. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his eyelashes were glistening. I moved to step closer but was met with his hand firmly planted in the middle of my chest. “I _need_ you to understand, Theo.”

I moved closer, pulling his hand off my chest, cupping the back of his neck in my hands. Resigned, he dropped his head, eyes to the pavement beneath us. Gently I kissed the top of his head, unruly curls tickling my cheek. I couldn’t move. This was where I was meant to be but Boris had convinced himself something else was better for both of us. I took one last inhale trying the memorize the scent of him- more sophisticated than when we were children but still distinctly Boris. “I love you, Boris.” I let him go and began the long walk back to my apartment.

—

I got so high that night I felt like my soul had left my body. Somehow I ended up on the surface of the moon and the ocean was above us.

Us.

He was there. Boris and I were dancing on the surface of the moon, his reflection in the water above us twinkling like stars. And then we were falling and I heard my mothers voice. I began to cry a steam of blue tears until I had cried a river that I was floating upon, Boris miles away, but somehow still visible. My mother’s voice cut through the sound of the rushing water _Theo. Theo, my puppy._ A giant hand reached down from above and swallowed me whole. Then there was darkness. All encompassing, lonely, murderous darkness. When I looked up, there he was. The full moon casting a glow over me like a spotlight. When I reached up to touch him, I suddenly held the whole of the moon in my hands, small and fragile. Holding him in both hands, I brought the celestial orb up close so I could peer at it through my glasses, really examine it. As if looking through a microscope, I saw two tiny boys swimming across the surface, splashing water at each other and wrestling each other down into the wet body. I brought the moon to my lips gently kissing him, very gently, so as not to disturb the boys playing innocently below. I threw him back to the sky and watched him float back up where he belonged. All that was left was Boris and me. I started to fade away. It didn’t bother me until I looked past my own glistening hands to see that Boris, who stood directly in front of me, was disappearing too. I began to hysterically cry. Reaching out for him I screamed as my hand was completely gone, arm disintegrating before my eyes. His eyes were sad but he smiled. I watched his face crumble into dust and we faded away together.

—

So much happens in between. I hadn’t wanted to overdose, that wasn’t the plan. I had long since pushed aside the idea of ending my own existence. Being with Boris, even in the limited capacity we had been together, didn’t fix everything wrong in my life, but it made me want to have a life.

Something must have happened in between as the next thing I could remember clearly was waking up naked in a cold bath in my apartment, Boris sitting on the floor, a washcloth in his hand.

“Oh, fuck you.” My voice came out in a hoarse croak, none of the usual bite, and my head was pounding like a drum. I turned to face the wall instead of his very concerned, tired eyes. “Why is the water so fucking cold?” I wanted to get out, to go curl up in my bed and fade back into sleep, but my body was abnormally heavy, all my limbs stiff.

His eyes were wide with relief. “Fuck me? Fuck _you_ , Theo,” said with no anger, but rather exasperation. He wasn’t here to fight and I didn’t have the energy as I laid in the tub barely able to move.

I peered over my shoulder at him, curls falling over his eyes, sleeves rolled up. “Why are you here?” It wasn’t accusatory, just a quiet plea for answers.

His eyes, red and swollen, met mine as he shook the hair out of his vision. I took him in as we simply gazed, silent. He was wearing the same clothes he had been at the restaurant, minus the jacket and suit coat. I hadn’t seen him quite so disheveled since we were children- shirt a wrinkled, half buttoned mess, wet in places from leaning over the tub, pants rolled up to his knees and hair approaching Vegas levels of greasy. And yet, he was all I wanted in the whole world. It had taken me half my life to be able to admit that to myself let alone say it out loud to him. But when I did it was already too late. Though I couldn’t help but wonder, why would he be here if it really was too late?

“Where’s your wife?” I whispered barely loud enough to be heard. I didn’t fully turn to face him but I felt his hands land rough on my cheeks as he turned me- my body sliding easily in the water- around to face him. Almost aggressively he held me tightly, leaning our foreheads together.

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you!” Threading a wet hand into his curls I pulled tightly. “You promised, Potter.”

I sighed deeply. In Antwerp I had promised him I wouldn’t overdo it on the drugs, especially not alone. We never asked each other to up and quit- we were both addicts, after all- but after the incident in Amsterdam he had looked so hurt and scared, making me promise not to try and kill myself again. Of course I agreed as I was starting to see a reason to live again.

“I know. I wasn’t trying—“

“Does not matter, idiot,” He shook my face, “So stupid.” He scolded with a broken voice that tore my heart apart. Pulling back he searched my face. “Found you,” he sucked in a sharp breath, “unresponsive on bed.” He let go of me to cover his own face. “Have been passed out two days.”

He had been with me for two days. “Told Astrid there was business.” He rubbed his eyes before diving his hands in the water to capture one of my own in his. “You are in and out, awake enough to half walk to tub. Good thing I had key or you—“ I brought our hands to my lips and kissed his wet skin. Boris had saved me again. I think he’ll save me again and again until the day we finally both go out in a fiery blaze- together.

Not letting go of his hand, I moved to lean on the edge of the tub where I could reach out and touch him. “What now, Boris?” After a quick glance he broke out laughing.

“ _What now, Boris?_ What do we do? You will die alone, clearly.” I drew back, hurt, but he held fast to my hand only squeezing tighter. “So you cannot be alone.”

I must have stopped breathing. “What?”

In a flash he was suddenly hugging me as though I might disappear, arms locked tight around my neck. “Hurt too much to see you only on occasion. Thought quitting cold turkey was only way to stop the thing.” He sat back and gestured to his chest.

“The _thing?”_ I couldn’t help but laugh. It was clear this was very difficult for him. English wasn’t his first language. Throughout our lives our most meaningful communication had been through physicality- gestures, touches, lifted eyebrows, darting eyes. I believe if he had been speaking in Russian or Polish it would have been equally difficult for him to articulate the depth of what he was trying to say.

Grabbing my hand again he placed it in the center of his chest and held it there. The warmth of his skin was like a fire under my fingertips. “Your heart ached so you left, ignored my texts for months and thought that would help?” He only nodded. “So do you want us to not see each other anymore?” Without my glasses he was soft around the edges but I’d learned to read him without them.

“I could not. You see? I am here, yes? Astrid, alone in New York, and I am here. I can not stay away, Potter. Like I said, alone you will die.”

“You _said_ I’d die alone, Boris. It’s different.” But I couldn’t help but smile. If he was trying to say what I thought he was— it wouldn’t be easy but we could figure it out.

“Idiot.” He rapped his knuckles at the side of my head, “What I am trying to say— what I want to say— will not let you die alone. Am done chasing. If is not too much trouble then I will—“

“ _Stay?”_ I asked before he could finish his sentence. His smile was wide, the only thing about him that didn’t look a perfect disaster in that moment and it was too much. Hand on the back of his neck I pulled him forward, nearly dragging him into the tub, to kiss his soft red lips. His arms wrapped around my neck again, fingertips grazing the water. I ran my tongue over his bottom lip before lightly pulling at it with my teeth. He slapped my cheek playfully, asking me to let go, before pressing his lips to my cheeks, my jawline.

Seeing as he was practically already in, I brought forth all my strength to haul his whole body over the side, with a giant splash, landing on top of mine in the cold water.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
